The question whether the art of making moulds and casts in plaster was
known to the ancient Greeks and Romans was discussed some years ago
by Mr. Charles C. Perkins, in an interesting pamphlet entitled “Du
Moulage en Plâtre chez les Anciens,”[8] in which he collected various
passages from ancient writers bearing more or less on this subject, and
endeavored by their authority to establish the fact that this process
was known and practiced at a comparatively early period in the history
of art. After a careful examination of all his citations and arguments,
as well as other authorities which he does not cite, we feel compelled
to dissent entirely from his conclusions. We do not think he has made
out his case. The question is an interesting one, however, from an
archæological point of view at least, and well deserves consideration.
The only passage among the writings of the ancients which at first
sight would seem directly to affirm that the process of casting in
plaster from life, from clay models, or from statues in the round, in
the modern meaning of that phrase, was known to the Greeks and Romans
occurs in the “Natural History” of Pliny, and is as follows:—
“Hominis autem imaginem gypso e facie ipsa primus omnium
expressit, ceraque in eam formam gypsi infusa emendare instituit
Lysistratus Sicyonis, frater Lysippi, de quo diximus. Hic et
similitudinem reddere instituit, ante eum quam pulcherrimum
facere studebant. Idem et de signis effigiem exprimere invenit,
crevitque res in tantum, ut nulla signa statuæve sine argilla
fierent. Quo apparet antiquiorem hanc fuisse scientiam quam
fundendi æris. Plastæ laudatissimi fuere Damophilus et Gorgasus
idemque pictores qui Cereris ædem Romæ ad Circum Maximum utroque
genere artis suæ excoluerunt.”[9]
Mr. Perkins, following in substance other translators, thus freely
translates and develops this passage:—
“Lysistrate de Sicyone fut le premier à prendre en plâtre des
moules de la figure humaine. Dans ces moules il coulait de la
cire, puis il corrigeait ces masques de cire d’après la nature.
De la sorte, il atteignit la ressemblance, tandis qu’avant lui on
ne s’appliquait qu’à faire de belles têtes. Lysistrate imagina
aussi de reproduire l’image des statues, procédé qui obtint
une telle vogue, que depuis lors ni figure ni statue ne fut
faite sans argile, et l’on soit en conclure que ce procédé est
antérieur à la fonte du bronze.”
If this translation be correct, there seems to be no doubt either that
Pliny was mistaken, or that the ancients knew and practiced the modern
art of casting in plaster.
Is, then, this translation correct? It seems to us to be an utter
misapprehension of the whole meaning of the passage. Pliny says nothing
about moulding or casting, and thus to translate and amplify the words
he does use is to assume the very facts in question. What he really
says is literally as follows:—
“Lysistratus of Sicyon, brother of Lysippus, of whom we have
spoken, first of all expressed the image of a man in gypsum
from the whole person [that is, made full-length portraits],
and improved it with wax [or color, for, as we shall see,
_cera_ means both] spread over the form. He first began to make
likenesses, whereas before him the study was to make persons
as beautiful as possible. He also invented expressing effigies
from statues; and this practice so grew that no statues or signa
[which were full-length figures either painted, modeled, cast
in bronze, or executed in marble] were made without white clay.
From which it would seem that this science [or process] was
older than that of casting in bronze. The most famous modelers
were Damophilus and Gorgasus, who were also painters, and who
decorated the temple of Ceres at Rome with both branches of their
art.”
The first sentence, thus literally rendered, it will be perceived, has
in many respects the same ambiguity in English as in Latin. The words
“image,” “expression,” and “form” have all a double signification, and
the question is what is their true meaning in this connection.
If it can be shown that this passage neither describes nor proposes
to describe the process of casting in plaster, as we understand that
phrase, the keystone of the whole argument that it was known to
the ancients falls out. No other writer directly asserts that such
a knowledge or practice existed, and all allusions to this matter
contained in any ancient author are purely collateral, and have no
force in themselves. Further, some well-known facts which we shall have
occasion to bring forward later are entirely opposed to the probability
of such a knowledge and practice.
It is upon this passage in Pliny, then, that the whole case depends.
Now, in a doubtful and obscure question like this, dependent upon the
statement of any single author, we have a right to claim three things:
first, that the statement should be clear and fairly susceptible of
only one explanation; second, that it should not be contradicted by
a subsequent statement immediately following; third, that the author
himself should be trustworthy.
And in the first place, as to the author. The “Natural History” of
Pliny is certainly a most interesting, amusing, and in many respects
valuable book, but quite as certainly it is one of the most inaccurate
that ever was written, abounding in half-knowledge, second-hand
information, legendary statements, and rubbish of every kind. It is,
in a word, the commonplace book of an agreeable, gossiping man, of
a wide reading, who took little pains to be accurate, who reported
everything he heard with slight examination, who was exceedingly
credulous, and who accepted as truth and fact the most ridiculous
stories. All is fish that comes to his net. In his chapters relating
to artists and art he is singularly devoid of judgment or accurate
knowledge; he constantly confuses things which have no relation to
each other, often contradicts himself, and becomes at times utterly
unintelligible. Yet we are forced to turn to Pliny, to give a weight
and authority to his words upon art, and to own a deep debt of
gratitude to him, not because he is trustworthy, but simply because he
alone of all the ancient authors, with the exception of Pausanias, has
given us a detailed account of the statues and artists of antiquity.
His account of the ancient artists and their works is the fullest we
have, and adrift as we often are on a wide sea of conjecture, we are
glad to seize upon any straws and fragments, “rari nantes in gurgite
vasto” of blankness and doubt; seizing here a bit from Pausanias,
Herodotus, or Lucian, there a waif from Cicero, or a floating fragment
from one of the great tragic poets, and glad enough to get upon any
such raft as that which Pliny gives us, however leaky and rickety. But
seaworthy or trustworthy in emergencies Pliny certainly is not.
In the next place, as to the passage under discussion. So far from
its being clear and distinct, its obscurity, confusion, and apparent
contradiction are so great as to have baffled every effort to explain
it satisfactorily; and Dr. Brunn, one of the most accomplished of
archæologists, in his history of Greek art, finding it impossible to
reconcile the different sentences, does not hesitate to treat a portion
as an interpolation, or at least out of place where it appears.
Two views are to be taken of the process described by Pliny: first,
that by the term “cera” he means wax; and second, that he means color.
Taking the first view, let us now consider the passage in question,
sentence by sentence, and endeavor to unravel its real meaning.
Lysistratus, first of all, made likenesses of men in gypsum from their
whole figure (that is, whole-length portraits), and improved them
with wax (or color) spread over the form (core or model) of gypsum.
“Imaginem gypso e facie ipsa expressit” are the words of Pliny which
Mr. Perkins in common with other translators supposes to mean “made
moulds in plaster from the face,”—“prendre en plâtre des moules.” But
this simple phrase cannot be twisted into such a meaning. “Exprimere,”
according to Forcellinus, is “effingere, rappresentare, assomigliare,
_ritrarre dal vivo_.” “Exprimere” alone would be, therefore, according
to this last definition, to make a portrait from life. The additional
words, “imaginem e facie ipsa,” make this meaning still stronger.
“Imaginem” means a full-length figure or likeness, and not a mould, as
would be required by Mr. Perkins’s translation. “Exprimere imaginem”
cannot be forced to mean “made a mould,” whether in gypsum or in any
other material. Suppose we translate the words literally, “to express
an image in plaster,” and interpret “image” to mean mould, it is plain
that the phrase is wrong; it should be _impress_ and not _express_. You
cannot express a mould. It is impressed on the face. In like manner
when Plautus says “expressa imago in cera,” or “expressa simulacra ex
auro,” he means making a portrait in color or in gold. Again, “facies”
does not mean face, but the total outward shape, appearance, or figure
of a man. “Vultus” is the proper term for face, and is so used by
Pliny himself; as when he speaks, for instance, of the portraits of
the head of Epicurus as “vultus Epicuri,” and distinguishes them from
the full-length figures of athletes, “imagines athletarum,” with which
the ancients adorned their palæstra and anointing-rooms. In fact, the
whole chapter in which this passage occurs relates to portraits, and
is entitled “honos imaginum.” If there could be any question on this
point, it would be settled by a passage in Aulus Gellius (13, 29),
in which he defines “facies” as the build of the whole body,—“facies
est factura quædam totius corporis;” and Cicero, in his treatise “De
Legibus” (1, 9), says, “That which is called ‘vultus’ exists in no
living being except man,”—“Is qui appellatur vultus nullo in animante
esse præter hominem potest.”[10] So Virgil in “vivos ducent de marmore
vultus” means the face. “Imago,” on the contrary, and “facies” mean
the whole figure; only “facies” means the real figure, and “imago” the
imitation of it. Pliny himself invariably uses them so, and in one of
his letters (ep. 7, 33, 2) he recommends that we should be careful to
select the best artist to make a full-length likeness,—“Esse nobis curæ
solet ut facies nostra ab optimo quoque artifice exprimatur.” By the
word “exprimatur” he certainly does not refer to casting. So mechanical
an operation as this surely does not require the best of artists.
“Imaginem e facie ipsa” means therefore a full-length likeness.
Again, “infundere” does not necessarily mean pour in, but is quite as
often used in the sense of poured over or spread on; as where Ovid
says, “infundere ceram tabellis;” or where Virgil says, “campi fusi in
omnem partem,” or “sole infuso terris;” or again where Ovid uses the
phrases “collo infusa mariti” or “nudos humeris infusa capillos,” it
can only mean spread over. Wax cannot be poured into a flat surface
like a tablet, or hair poured into shoulders.
Mr. Perkins, with Forcellinus before his eyes, after citing his
definitions of “exprimere” says: “Explications qui toutes rentrent
dans l’idée de représenter, de reproduire, de prendre sur le vif,
comme on dit en français, et par conséquent dans l’idée du moulage.”
But “ritrarre dal vivo” means nothing more than to make a portrait
from life, whatever “prendre sur le vif” may mean; nor can any one of
Forcellinus’s definitions be tortured into an allusion to casting.
“Mais,” he continues, “cette idée surtout est accusée dans Tacite, qui
dit en parlant d’un vêtement que dessinait les formes, un vêtement
collant ‘_vestis_ artus exprimens.’” But surely this phrase means
simply a garment expressing, or as we should say showing, the limbs,
and has nothing more to do with “casting” than “dessinait les formes”
has to do with drawing, or a “vêtement collant” has to do with glue. He
also thinks another phrase used by Pliny—“expressi cera _vultus_”—has
a similar significance. If all our metaphors are to be subjected to
this strict test, we must be very careful how we speak. Yet these and
similar examples, which he says he could multiply, “peuvent suffire,”
he thinks, “pour nous autoriser à croire que Pline a voulu dire que
Lysistrate était l’inventeur de la reproduction des statues par le
plâtre, en d’autres termes qu’il était le premier qui avait eu l’idée
de se servir du gypse pour mouler.” This, to say the least, is going
very far. With such philologic views, what would he think of this
phrase, “vera paterni oris effigies,” or “vivos ducent de marmore
vultus,” or “infans omnibus membris expressa”? Or, to take an English
line, what would he make of—
“The express form and image of the King”?
But if Pliny meant casting, why did he not use the appropriate Latin
word for that process—“fundere”? In the subsequent sentence, speaking
of casting in brass, he says “fundendi æris.” “Fundere” meant to cast,
not “exprimere.”
Besides, let us look at the practical difficulty in this process.
After the moulds were made and the wax cast into them, as Mr. Perkins
interprets Pliny to mean, we have still only wax impressions, and not
plaster castings. And how were they got out of the mould after they
were cast? We, in modern times, have learned no method of doing this;
we should be obliged first to make the mould in plaster, then to make a
cast in plaster in that mould, then on that cast to make a piece-mould
with sections to take apart,—an elaborate process; and then we could
get a wax cast, but not before. The fact that the cast mentioned by
Pliny (supposing he means a cast) is in wax not only involves quadruple
labor and skill on the part of the caster, but makes the process
impossible, or next to impossible, if it were simply as he is supposed
to describe it. If the cast were in plaster, it would resist, so that
the mould could be broken off from it in bits; but with wax this would
be entirely impracticable.
Let us still further consider the phrase “ceraque in eam formam gypsi
infusa emendare instituit.” What does “cera in eam formam infusa” mean?
Simply to cover or spread wax (or color) over that model; just as Ovid
says “infundere ceram tabellis,” to spread wax over the tablets, not
to pour wax into the tablets, for that was impossible, they being flat
surfaces, nor to cast them. Again, Pliny does not say that Lysistratus
introduced the practice of spreading wax over a core, or of pouring
wax into a form, or casting; but only of improving the likenesses,
or working them up in the wax after it was spread over the plaster:
“instituit emendare,” he says, not “instituit infundere.” “Formam”
here has not the signification of mould, but of model or image.
Undoubtedly the term “forma” in Latin was used to signify a mould as
well as a cast, or a model, or a form; and in this respect it had the
same ambiguity that the corresponding terms “mould” and “form” have
in English. A “form” is a seat, as well as a shape and a ceremony,
and “mould” is constantly, though improperly, used to indicate a
model or the thing moulded, as well as the real mould in which it is
cast; the phrases “to model” and “to mould” are often synonymous in
meaning. So “forma” was sometimes employed in its primary significance
of figure, shape, and configuration, as when Quinctilian says, “Eadem
cera aliæ atque aliæ formæ duci solent,”—various shapes may be given
to the same wax; sometimes in the sense of image, as when Cicero
speaks of “formæ clarissimorum,” the images of distinguished men;
sometimes to mean a model or shape over which a thing is wrought, as
a shoemaker’s last,—“Si scalpra et formas non sutor emat,” as Horace
says; and sometimes as indicating a hollow mould in which bronze is
cast, as when Pliny says, “Ex iis [silicibus] formæ fiunt, in quibus
æra funduntur,”—from these pebbles moulds are made, in which brass is
cast. But when he uses it in this last sense, it will be observed,
Pliny employs the term “fundere,” to cast, and not “exprimere,” nor
“emendare.” In the passage about Lysistratus, then, “forma” would seem
to mean a model, or core, like the shoemaker’s last, on which the wax
was spread for the purpose of emending or improving something. What is
that something which Pliny tells us he improved by this means? What
can it be except the “imaginem,” the likeness? There is no other word
to which “emendare” can refer. If, then, we understand the passage
as meaning that Lysistratus modeled a likeness in gypsum, and then
improved it or finished it in wax which he spread over the gypsum, the
statement is quite intelligible, and not a word is warped from its
correct significance. If we adopt the other interpretation, however,
we must understand “imaginem gypso expressit” to mean that he made a
mould in gypsum, contrary to the direct force of the words; and with
wax poured into that mould (making “formam” equivalent to “imaginem,”
and referring to it) he emended or improved—something. What? Why, the
mould,—which is absurd. Again, we cannot begin by making “imaginem”
mean the cast, before the “formam” or mould is made; not only because
the practical process is thus reversed, but because then we should
have a cast in plaster made by pouring wax into the mould, which is
even more absurd. Taking “forma” to have in this sentence any of its
meanings except “mould,” we have no difficulty in understanding it;
taking it as “mould,” we are forced to change the primary significance
of “imaginem” and “expressit,” and are involved in very serious
questions.
In addition to these considerations, it must not be forgotten that
this cast of gypsum, according to Mr. Perkins’s interpretation of the
sentence, was made not of the face alone (“vultus”) which is by no
means an easy process, but of the whole figure (“facie”), which is a
very hazardous one, and to which, with all the knowledge and experience
of the present day in casting, few people would be willing to submit.
A passage of Alcimus Avitus, in his poem “De Origine Mundi” (lib. 1,
6, 75), throws a clear light on the process which seems here to be
described as the invention of Lysistratus:—
“Hæc ait, et fragilem dignatus tangere terram
Temperat humentem conspersa pulvere limum
Molliturque novum dives sapientia corpus
Non aliter quam opifex diuturno exercitus usu.
_Flectere laxatas per cuncta sequacia ceras
Et vultus complere rudes aut corpora gypso
Fingere_ vel segni speciem componere massa
Sic Pater Omnipotens.”
Here we have the body modeled (“fingere” is to model) in gypsum, and
the ductile “cera” spread over all the undulations, and the rude face
finished, just as Pliny describes it.
Let us now consider the next sentence, in which he says, “Hic et
similitudinem reddere instituit, ante eum quam pulcherrimum facere
studebant.” This certainly has nothing to do with casting. It is very
important as throwing a reflex light on the previous sentence. The
whole stress of the passage is to bring out the fact that Lysistratus
made portraits. He used a peculiar process, perhaps, but his specialty
was that he made portraits from life (“imaginem hominis e facie ipsa”),
which he worked up in wax (“emendare cera”); and not only this, but his
portraits were exact likenesses (“similitudinem reddere instituit”),
and not merely ideal figures like those of the artists who preceded him
(“ante eum quam pulcherrimum facere studebant”).
A slight glimpse at the history of the art will clear up this matter.
In the early period of sculpture, only statues of divinities were
made, and up to a comparatively late time these archaic figures were
copied for religious and superstitious reasons, and the old formal
hieratic type was strictly observed. It was not until the 58th Olympiad
that iconic statues began to be made in honor of the victors in the
national games, and these for the greater part were rather portraits
of the peculiarities of general physical developments than of the
face. Portrait statues of distinguished men now began to be made,
but they were very few in number, and only exceptionally allowed
by the state. The first iconic statues, representing Harmodius and
Aristogeiton, were made in 509 B. C. by Antenor. Phidias followed
(480 to 432 B. C.), and during his period the grand style was in
its culmination, and for the most part divinities or demigods only
were thought worthy subjects for a great sculptor. Iconic statues
were, however, executed during this period, and among the legendary
heroes and divinities who formed the subjects of the thirteen statues
erected at Delphi and executed by Phidias out of the Persian spoils,
the portrait of Miltiades was allowed,[11] but the erection of public
portrait statues was very rarely permitted, and the introduction by
Phidias of his own portrait and that of Pericles among the combatants
wrought upon the shield of his ivory and gold statue of Athena
occasioned a prosecution against him for impiety. It is said that
Phidias, in his statue of a youth binding his hair with a fillet,
made the portrait of Pantarces, an Elean who was enamored of the
great sculptor, and who obtained the victory at the Olympian games
in the 86th Olympiad (B. C. 435). But this story, which is given by
Pausanias, rests, even by his own account, purely on tradition, and
was apparently founded upon a supposed resemblance between Pantarces
and the statue. Portraiture in its true sense, however, now began, and
soon after the death of Phidias, about the 90th Olympiad, Demetrius
obtained celebrity as a portrait sculptor. He seems to have been the
first to introduce the realistic school of portraiture, copying so
carefully from life, particularly in his likenesses of old persons,
that he was reproved for being too faithful to Nature. Quinctilian
accuses him of being “nimius in veritate” (xii. 10); Lucian in his
“Philopseudes” calls him an ἀνθρωποποιός, and, describing a statue by
him of Pelichus the Corinthian, says it was αὐτῷ ἀνθρώπῳ ὁμοῖον,—like
the very man himself. Callimachus, also, at the same period obtained
the nickname of Κατατηξίτεχνος, on account of the extreme detail and
finish of his works. These artists flourished nearly a century before
Lysistratus; and Pliny therefore is incorrect in his sweeping statement
that before the time of Lysistratus sculptors had only endeavored to
make their statues as beautiful as possible, and not to give accurate
portraits. Still, these men must be considered as exceptions to the
general practice, and it was not until the time of Alexander that
portrait-sculpture in the sense of accurate likeness was developed.
Up to that period it still was heroic, generalized, and ideal in its
character, with comparatively little individuality or detail. The
portrait statues, for instance, of the Royal Family by Leochares (372
B. C.), and that of Mausolus (about 350 B. C.) on the famous Mausoleum
erected by Artemisia, were treated in this style. Lysippus, however,
during the reign of Alexander of Macedon, by his great talent gave a
new impulse and development to the school of portraiture, and while
retaining the heroic character he gave a more realistic truth to his
works. Pliny speaks of him as distinguished for the finish of his work
in the remotest details,—“argutiæ operum custoditæ in minimis rebus.”
In his portraits of Alexander he represented even the defects of his
royal patron, such as the stoop of his head sideways. Such was his
skill that Alexander declared “that none but Apelles should represent
him in color, and none but Lysippus in marble.” Lysistratus was the
brother of Lysippus, and Pliny says that he introduced the practice of
making portraits which were not merely heroic and ideal likenesses, but
faithful representations of the real men. In attributing to Lysistratus
the introduction of this practice of individual portraiture, Pliny
undoubtedly goes beyond the real facts. He did not introduce the
practice, he merely developed it by a peculiar process, giving
additional verisimilitude thereby. This process was roughly modeling
the likeness in plaster, and then finishing the surface and the details
in the “cera” with which he covered it.
In painting, the sphere of portraiture was larger than in sculpture,
and subject apparently to no such restrictions. The earliest portrait
on record by any great painter was not of hero, philosopher, or
athlete, but of Elpinice, the daughter of Miltiades and the mistress
of Polygnotus, who painted her portrait as Laodice, one of the
daughters of Priam, in his famous picture representing the “Rape of
Cassandra,” in the Pœcile at Athens. This picture was executed about
463 B. C., when Elpinice must have been at least thirty-five years of
age. Dionysius of Colophon was also a distinguished portrait-painter
and celebrated for his excessive finish. Nicephorus Chumnus, the
grammarian, describes Apelles and Lysippus as making and painting Ζῶσας
εἰκώνας καὶ πνοῆς μόνης καὶ κινήσεως ἀπολειπόμενας,—being likenesses
only wanting breath and motion. For one of his portraits of Alexander
Apelles received twenty talents of gold (£5,000), which was measured,
not counted, out to him. He also painted the portraits of Campaspe and
Phryne in the character of Venus, taking the face from Campaspe and the
nude figure from Phryne. Speaking of Apelles, Pliny himself relates in
his thirty-sixth book that “he painted portraits so exact to the life
that one of those persons called Metoscopi, who divine events from the
features of men, was enabled, on examining his portraits, to foretell
the hour of the death of the person represented.” And this monstrous
story Pliny apparently accepts. At all events, he does not question it.
Parrhasius, “the most insolent and arrogant of artists,” says Pliny,
“painted a portrait of himself and dedicated it in a public temple
to Mercury; and though the Athenians had publicly proceeded against
Phidias for so doing, they allowed it to Parrhasius, thus plainly
showing that the dignity of sculpture was higher than that of painting.”
But to return from this digression to the consideration of the passage
by Pliny relating to portraiture in modeling and sculpture. In the
sentence immediately following, Pliny goes on to say, “Idem et de
signis effigiem exprimere invenit, crevitque res in tantum, ut nulla
signa statuæve sine argilla fierent,”—Lysistratus also made copies
from statues, and this practice came so into vogue that no statues
in brass or marble were made without white clay. What the meaning
of this sentence is we can only guess; as it stands, it is quite
unintelligible. Perhaps he intended to say that Lysistratus set the
fashion of making small copies in clay or terra cotta of all the
statues that were executed. But it is quite possible that he meant
nothing of the kind. It is plain that if Lysistratus had already
invented casting in plaster, it would have been unnecessary to copy
statues in clay, except for the purpose of reduction to statuettes. Mr.
Perkins thinks he may have intended to speak of “esquisses d’argile
[maquettes] dont se servent les sculpteurs comme point de départ,
esquisse reproduite plus tard en marbre et avec la mise aux points.”
But there was nothing new in this; and surely Lysistratus could not
be said to have invented, or set the fashion of, a process which
certainly had been employed very long before his time. And again, why
make a small statue in clay and enlarge it proportionally in marble, if
you can make it at once in full size and cast it? Nor does Mr. Perkins
seem to be aware that in adopting this view, and translating as he does
“de signis effigiem exprimere,”—to make a small model or maquette in
clay,—he abandons his explanation of the sentence referring to gypsum.
For if “effigiem argilla exprimere” means, as he says, to make a model
in clay, why does not “imaginem gypso exprimere” mean to make a model
in plaster? Besides, the fact that Pliny applies the same terms to a
process in clay as to one in plaster at once puts an end to the matter
so far as the question of casting goes. Clay is not a material to cast
with, in any proper sense of that term.
Another objection to this interpretation that Pliny meant a maquette,
“esquisse,” or sketch is that “effigies” did not mean sketch. It
carried with it nearly the significance of our own word effigy,—of
great reality of imitation. “Imago” was a vaguer word, and might
indicate a delusive resemblance as by painting; but “effigiem” was
ordinarily employed to designate a more absolute imitation. Thus
Cicero says, “Nos vere juris germanæ justitiæ que solidam et expressam
effigiem nullam tenemus. Umbra et imaginibus utimur.”[12] And again,
“Consectatur nullam eminentem effigiem virtutis sed adumbratam
imaginem gloriæ.” “Effigies” would, therefore, carry no such idea as
that of sketch.
Besides, not only is “effigies” not the correct word for sketch, but
Pliny would scarcely have used it in this sense, when immediately
afterwards, speaking of the sketches of Arcesilaus, which sold for more
than the finished works of other artists, he employs the appropriate
term for sketches,—“proplasma.” In the translation of Pliny, published
by Mr. Bohn, and made by Mr. Bostick and Mr. Riley, this term is
translated “models in plaster;” but it simply means sketches or
antijicta, in whatever material they were made. The words “plastæ”
and “plasma” have nothing to do with plaster. “Plastæ” were simply
modelers, and πλαστική was the art of modeling,—the plastic art.
Again, Pliny could scarcely have intended to say that Lysistratus
invented modeling sketches of statues in clay before executing them
in plaster, since he tells us explicitly that Pasiteles used to say
that _plastice_ was the mother of _statuaria, scalptura, et cælatura_;
and, though he was distinguished as first in all these arts, he never
executed anything in them until he had first modeled it in clay,—“nihil
unquam fecit, antequam finxit.”
Before leaving this sentence, let us take a different view of its
possible meaning. May not Pliny use the words “signa” and “signis” to
mean pictures and not statues? Undoubtedly “signum” was thus used,
as where Plautus speaks of a “signum pictum in parieti,”—a picture
painted on the wall; or where Virgil speaks of a “pallam signis auroque
rigentem,”—a mantle stiff with embroidered figures and gold. In this
sense the passage would mean that Lysistratus made effigies from
pictures as well as from statues, and that thenceforward not only no
statues but no pictures were made without being copied in bas-relief,
or in the round, argilla, or white clay. This would account for the use
of the word “effigiem,” which has a stronger significance of reality
than “imaginem.”
The succeeding sentence is even more obscure; and, unless it be
interpolated or out of its proper place, is quite unintelligible.
In the connection in which it now stands it is absurd. It is as
follows: “Quo apparet antiquiorem hanc fuisse scientiam quam fundendi
æris,”—by which it seems that this knowledge or practice was older
than that of casting in bronze. What is the “scientiam” to which he
refers? He has previously spoken only of two: first, that of making
portraits in plaster and wax; second, that of making copies of statues
in clay,—both, as he says, invented or introduced into practice by
Lysistratus. But to say that that artist could have invented any
process older than that of casting in bronze is not only ridiculous in
itself, but inconsistent with what he has previously told us; since at
least two centuries previous to the time of Lysistratus, Rhœcus and
Theodorus of Samos—as we learn from Pausanias, Herodotus, and even
Pliny himself—exercised the art of casting in bronze. Pausanias,[13]
indeed, tells us that these sculptors invented this art; but Pliny,
with his usual inaccuracy and carelessness, says that they invented
“plastice,” or the art of modeling (“In Samo primos omnium plasticen
invenisse Rhœcum et Theodorum,” ch. xxxv.),—an art which from the very
nature of things must have been practiced from the earliest and rudest
ages, almost from the time when the first child made the first mud-pie.
Dr. Brunn,[14] in commenting on this passage in Pliny, accepts the
first sentence as describing the art of casting in plaster, but,
finding it impossible to reconcile it with the subsequent sentences,
ingeniously suggests that it was an addition inserted in the margin,
and afterwards interpolated into the text by the copyists in the wrong
place. Throwing out this first sentence about Lysistratus from this
place, he still accepts it, and interprets it to mean that Lysistratus
invented the art of casting. The subsequent sentences he connects with
a previous passage in Pliny, in which he gives an account of Dibutades
of Sicyon, a potter by trade, and relates the legend that this artist
drew the outline of the face of a girl whom he loved from her shadow on
the wall, and his father pressed clay upon it within those outlines,
and made a _typum_ which he baked. The passage, according to Dr.
Brunn, then would continue: “He [Dibutades] also invented the making of
effigies from signa, and this practice so increased that thenceforward
no statues or signa were made without argilla; so that it appears
that this art was more ancient than that of casting in bronze.” By
accepting this suggestion of Dr. Brunn we certainly relieve Pliny of
the absurdity of stating that any “scientiam” or practice invented
by Lysistratus was older than casting in bronze, since centuries
before his time bronze figures of colossal proportions had been cast.
But even supposing these sentences to refer to Dibutades and not to
Lysistratus, they are far from being clear or accurate. Is it possible
to believe that, while the making of brick and earthenware utensils and
fictile vases is so ancient that the memory of man runneth not to the
contrary, no one before Dibutades had ever attempted to model a figure
or a face in clay, or to put a model into a furnace and bake it? All
history is against such a supposition. Images in terra cotta were made
by the ancient Egyptians, Babylonians, and Ephesians centuries before
Dibutades. The ancient Etruscan terra cottas previous to his epoch were
scattered, as Pliny himself says, all over the world: “Signa Tuscanica
per terras dispersa.” The capitol was decorated with earthen statues at
the time of the first Tarquin, and Pausanias mentions many clay statues
of gods and demigods executed in the earliest ages of Greece itself.
Again, from this very passage it is clear that Pliny himself admits
that there were _signa_ and _statuæ_ already existing at the time of
Dibutades, of which he first made effigies. What did Dibutades invent?
Certainly not the art of modeling in clay, or of baking the clay. His
statement, also, that thenceforward no statues were made without clay
is scarcely intelligible, unless we suppose him to mean that clay
models were made thenceforward before executing statues in stone or
other materials. But he does not say this. Again, he cannot mean that
Dibutades first invented taking impressions from indented outlines, or
_intaglii_, for this was as old as the first primitive seal, and was no
more invented by Dibutades than by Lysistratus.
Dr. Brunn interprets the statement in respect to Dibutades as showing
that he was probably the first inventor of casting, at the same time
that he also interprets the sentences referring to Lysistratus as
declaring that he first invented casting,—the only difference being
that the process of the one was in clay, and that of the other in
plaster.
But is it clear that Dibutades, according to Pliny, ever made even
a stamp in clay from indented outlines on the wall? The passage is
ordinarily so interpreted, but is this interpretation correct? Pliny
says that Dibutades having traced the shadow on the wall in outline,
his father impressed clay within that outline, and thus made a
_typum_ which he baked with other articles of earth, and which was
long afterwards preserved in the Nymphæum at Corinth. His words are,
“quibus lineis pater ejus impressa argilla typum fecit.” What, then,
is the meaning of “typum”? Evidently not a mould, or impression, but a
relief. Had it been a mould, he could have stamped from it a hundred
impressions, since it would have been merely a seal with an irregularly
relieved outline; and in order to have the repetition of what was on
the wall he must perforce have stamped from it an impression. This he
evidently did not do, or at least nothing is said to indicate anything
of the kind. He preserved and baked what he first obtained, which,
if it was merely a mould, would have produced, to say the least, no
effect. The true as well as the literal translation of this passage
would seem to be, “within the outlines by putting on clay he made a
relief.” This clay he probably modeled as well as he could, keeping
within the lines, and then removed it from the wall and baked it. The
same interpretation of this passage is given by Giovanni Battista
Adriani, in a remarkable essay or rather letter addressed by him
to Giorgio Vasari in 1567, in which he gives a summary of the most
celebrated Greek artists and their works. “Typus” in Latin had the
double significance of “intaglio” and “relievo,” as our word “type”
has of the type itself and the printed impression; and sometimes it
was used in one sense and sometimes in the other, but it was usually
employed to mean a relief. Thus Cicero, in one of his letters to
Atticus (lib. i. ep. 10), writes, “Præterea typos tibi mando quos in
tectorio atrioli possim includere,”—I commission you also to procure me
some reliefs to be inserted in the plaster of the anteroom. And Pliny
in this passage would plainly seem to use the word in the same sense;
otherwise he would probably have written “forma,” as he did in other
cases when he meant a mould. Not that even that word would be free from
all ambiguity, but it would more appropriately signify a mould.
But however ingenious is the suggestion of Dr. Brunn that the passages
relating to Lysistratus ought to belong to Dibutades, the fact is that
in all editions of Pliny they are connected with Lysistratus; and as
this suggestion does not dispose of all difficulties and clear up the
matter, we will proceed to consider them in that relation, and see if
anything can be made clearly out of them.
Plainly, if the “scientiam” here spoken of refers to the invention of
Lysistratus, and is interpreted to be the art of casting in plaster,
it is ridiculously incorrect to say that it was older than casting
in brass. If that invention be of modeling in plaster, it is also
entirely incorrect. We know that this was practiced at least a century
previous,—as, for instance, in the construction of the great statue of
Zeus at Megara, the body of which was of plaster and clay, the head
alone being cased in gold and ivory; and also of the Bacchus in painted
plaster, of which Pausanias speaks.
The only way in which we can explain the statement that any “scientiam”
or process described by Pliny as used by Lysistratus was older than
the art of casting in bronze, is by supposing he meant to say that the
process he employed was in itself an old one, and that it was only in
the practical application to the making of portraits that there was
any novelty,—the process of covering a core of plaster with wax being
older than casting in bronze, while covering a sketch of plaster with
wax and then working that surface up from life was new. The statement
so understood would be intelligible at least, and, as far as we know,
perfectly correct. The method of the ancients in casting bronze statues
is not described by any ancient writer, but it is supposed to have been
this: A fire-proof core was first built up of plaster, clay, earth,
or other materials, and over this a thin and even coating of wax or
pitch was spread; or perhaps, which is not so probable, the surface was
rasped down to the thickness intended for the bronze, and afterwards
covered with a thin coating of wax. In either case the result would be
the same. The outside of this wax being then completely covered with
sand or packed clay-dust, there would be a thin coating of wax inclosed
between the two surfaces, which, melting away before the fused metal,
would allow that metal to take its place. This would account for the
remarkable thinness and evenness of the ancient bronzes; for by such
a method the core would be perfect, and the artist would naturally
put on as little wax as possible. If we suppose the statue, after it
was nearly completed in plaster or clay, not to have been rasped down
but simply to have been covered with wax, we shall see that the result
would be that the bronze cast would be a little fuller in size and
thicker in proportions than the original model. And this is a peculiar
characteristic of the ancient bronzes, especially to be observed in the
limbs and joints, which are generally larger and puffier in bronze than
in marble statues.
Now if Pliny meant to say of Lysistratus that his method of modeling
portraits by making a plaster figure or core, and covering the surface
with wax, was older than that of casting in bronze, he was quite
right; for undoubtedly the process of covering a core with wax must
have preceded that of casting in bronze, or at least must have been
coincident with it. But at the same time this method had previously
been used only, or at least chiefly, in casting; whereas Lysistratus
was the first to use it for modeling from life and carefully finishing
every part. The process was old; the application was new.
Thus far in considering this passage we have proceeded on the
hypothesis that the “cera” spoken of was wax. But another and quite
different view is also possible, and seems in all probability to be the
correct one. Pliny may mean to refer to quite a different thing, and
by the term “cera” may have meant not wax but color. “Ceræ” was the
common term for a painter’s colors, and Pliny himself thus uses it in
defining encaustic painting: “Ceris pingere et picturam inurere.” Varro
also says, “Pictores locutulas magnas habent arculas ubi discolores
sunt ceræ.” Statius also uses the same term when he says, “Apelleæ
cuperent te scribere ceræ.” Anacreon, in his odes, constantly uses
κηρός for picture; as, for instance,—
Ἔρωτα κήρινόν τις
Νεηνίης ἐπώλει.
Here it is not a waxen figure, but a wax, or oil,—that is, a painting
of Eros, not an ἀγάλμα. And in the same ode the youth replies in Doric,
“Οὐκ εἰμὶ κηροτέχνης”—“I am not a painter;” or even more manifestly in
the ode beginning,—
Ἄγε ζωγράφων ἄριστε,
γράφε, ζωγράφων ἄριστε,
Ῥοδίης κοίρανε τέχνης,
ἀπεοῦσαν, ὡς ἂν εἴπω,
γράφε τὴν ἐμὴν ἑταίρην.
γράφε μοι τρίχας τὸ πρῶτον
ἁπαλάς τε καὶ μελαίνας·
ὁ δὲ κηρὸς ἂν δύνηται,
γράφε καὶ μύρου πνεούσας.